


old wounds

by polarkai



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Brief Maggie Sawyer/Kate Kane, F/F, Idiots in Love, POV Second Person, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarkai/pseuds/polarkai
Summary: Addictionkills—and Alex Danvers is going to be the death of you.
Relationships: Alex Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 197





	old wounds

they say don't open old wounds

but this is still brand new

and i've got nothing left to lose besides you

and i've already lost you once

what more could you do?

— _old wounds,_ pvris.

* * *

Your hands are shaking.

You should’ve known it would end up this way. 

What you’ve known for months now is that successfully disentangling yourself from the Danvers sisters is inevitable with time, patience, and effort. You know this. It's all about shifting gears, moving forward even when it feels more like a leap backwards, and it is supposed to be as expected:

Easy.

You have always been the cavalier type, all emotionless gazes to accompany the signature scowls, the sharp, practiced responses, and the entire minding-your-own-business facade that you’ve perfected over the years. For the most part, you like to think that you’re decent at pretending. And you may not be a hundred percent honest, and perhaps it seems like you’re in denial, but you’re not _stupid_. 

Detaching yourself from Alex Danvers is supposed to be easy. 

[So it’s just a coincidence, then, that you ended up in the very bar she just so happens to frequent? Bullshit, Lena.] 

You don’t actually notice her until you hear it, though.

That _laugh._

The one that's settled into the confines of an organ that's been incapable of feeling for all the years you’ve danced your way through drinks and buried yourself in your work. It's a laugh you’ve subconsciously buried away, hidden somewhere you can't seem to place— deep in your bone marrow, or the streams of your blood, maybe. But your heart, for sure. 

The _traitorous_ organ; the bringer of pain and ecstasy and everything in between, especially when it comes to Alex fucking Danvers. 

You watch her laugh, basking in the familiar sweetness. It's something you haven't heard in months. She flirts away with the tattooed bartender, twirling a strand of auburn hair and smirking. As though she even needs to. She’s _Alex_ , for God’s sake; you think she can get anything or anyone she wants without even trying. 

You down your scotch and get another round. It’s not the best you’ve ever had, quite low quality, actually — you’ve spent more money on an entire bottle than they’ve likely spent on this whole establishment — but you have nowhere else to go, anyways. The bartender slips Alex her number with a wink, and there goes her laugh again. All pretty and confident and so very, very Alex, _this_ Alex, the Alex that’s comfortable in her skin. 

She swirls her drink, swishing the gold colored liquid around, and you watch her from across the bar. And, God, you're completely aware of how absurdly creepy you're being, but you just _can’t help it_ because you're a little shocked, a little amused, and just a little captivated.

You want her to turn around, to flicker her eyes up to yours so you could see that Director Danvers smirk of hers and watch as she slides off the barstool to make her way over to you. 

You would never admit it, of course, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't like the attention way back when, before everything came to the surface after Lex. You'd also be lying if you said that it didn’t suddenly become hard to breathe when you meet warm hazel eyes staring right at you.

It seems like she’s grown in the few months you’ve avoided her. Her face seems sharper, her jaw stronger, but still the same magnetizing eyes. She reacts differently than expected when she sees you, not making the first move to speak, not attempting to make any conversation. 

She wants you to be the first one to make the move, to turn the tables, take the wheel. She’s giving you leeway, a chance to turn back and forget this happened, to pretend as though you’re still no longer on speaking terms. She's waiting for you, you _know_ this, and this game goes on for a while. She side-eyes you, and you throw her a smirk, sometimes a nod of the head or a raise of the brow. It goes on until she only has a quarter of her whiskey left and you suck it up and approach her, not one to back down from a fight, but also knowing you could never win one against someone like her. 

Alex Danvers is not one for losing, and you’re well aware of this. 

You take a seat to her left, and her voice makes you feel things you shouldn't. You blame the alcohol, but it’s _her_ , her and those eyes that look you up and down, face slightly tinted pink. _You’re beautiful,_ you want to tell her, imagine telling her, over and over, but your mouth stays pressed shut until she speaks first.

"Lena," she greets. Her lips quirk up into a soft smile, and though you want nothing more than to press your own mouth against them, you make sure your eyes don't linger on them for too long. You can't give her the satisfaction.

Well— perhaps you can. Just for a second.

“Director,” you greet her back with a nod. 

“Alex,” she corrects you immediately. "How are you?" she asks a moment later, and her voice is a bit shaky now, her confidence slipping away just a bit, but you don’t mention it. "I never expected to see you here.” 

You don’t blame her. A bar like this doesn’t really seem like your thing, and you know that Alex would have never pegged you to drink whiskey by yourself at three in the morning on a Tuesday, either. Guess that’s just how things are, now. 

“Yes, well,” you shrug, attempting to be nonchalant. “I’ve undergone a change of pace recently.” 

“Oh yeah?” Alex entertains you, sipping from her drink. 

“Yes. _I’ve_ changed.” Because, fuck, if you haven’t, after all that went down. 

“You're still gorgeous,” she says, and it seems to be a complete slip of the tongue, something not meant to be heard outside of the confines of her own mind, but it escapes anyways. 

“You can’t do that,” you shake your head. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” She must be well beyond drunk, because the way she looks at you could never come from someone like _her_ unless they’re far from sober.

“Alex—“

A slurred interjection, “Let me buy you a drink.” It’s not a question, her hand already flagging down the bartender. 

Well, you should’ve known it would end up this way. 

* * *

Your back hits the wall and Alex’s fingers are inside you before your skirt is even all the way down to your ankles, stroking and thrusting and _curling_ just the way you like it. She still remembers your weaknesses, like the spot on your jawline just under your ear where she sucks and nips at to make you gasp, and the part of your lower back where if she digs her nails in just right, you’ll arch into her. 

You're always struck by the unspeakable poeticism that your skin bruises so easily. You suppose it always has, always has turned the blues and purples and grays of seeping loneliness, but they blossom along your neck and chest as Alex travels down with her mouth. 

It’s in your blood almost, built into your cells, and when they explode underneath your skin there is evidence that you have no choice but to accept. It's resignation, this supplementation of longing into something visible. Your body aches with it, and lately, it’s intermingled with more than just loneliness. There’s anger in there somewhere, hidden deep down but quickly rising to the surface with each scrape of Alex’s teeth against the tender flesh of your throat. 

“Stop, stop. Fuck,” you spit out almost unconsciously, and Alex’s reels back, pulling her fingers out of you in an instant. You try to ignore the empty ache it leaves, shocked at your own abrupt explosion. 

“What?” she asks, breathing heavily. Her cheeks are flushed, hair tousled from your hands combing through crimson locks, and she looks so beautiful despite everything that you _burn._

“Fuck you.” And you don’t know why all the anger is coming up now, but it is. It all rushes out in one breath. “ _Fuck_ you, Alex. What are we doing?” 

“ _I_ thought we were just—“

“It always ends up like this. We begin this… this _thing_ , between us. Then something happens, and we stop until we start it up again. Now we’re doing it, _again_. Why? Why do we keep doing this?”

“You left first, Lena. You remember that, don’t you?” Face red, she pushes back against you, and you clench your jaw. “ _You_ left. You don’t think I might’ve hated this too?”

Your hands are shaking again. In fact, your whole body is shaking, trembling with unbridled rage. “You— you can’t just—“ 

“Just take you back to _your_ penthouse and fuck you like _you_ begged me to?” Alex spits back, your sudden outburst making the anger rise in her now too. “What can’t I do, Lena?” 

_You can’t make me fall for you again._ That’s what you think, immediately, but you press your lips together and grit your teeth to avoid doing something that could ruin you, like tell her. 

So instead, you find yourself shoving her down onto the bed, her hands coming up to grasp at your shoulders as you kiss her, rough and messy and more the clashing of teeth than anything else. Your blouse comes off first, Alex nearly ripping it apart at the seams, the buttons almost tearing off. Your panties are next, flying across the room as Alex tosses them over your shoulder. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until she stops again, hesitant, but you shake your head and kiss her again. She pulls back though, checks your eyes, makes sure that some semblance of you is okay, in control. It’s so gentle and thoughtful even in the midst of all of this, and it breaks your heart. Entire dynasties could have fallen because of a woman like this, you think.

“Lena,” Alex whispers, and she’s asking for permission, her hand hovering over you but not quite touching yet, and all you can do is nod. 

She sucks hard on your neck and tangles a hand in your hair. It’s rough and it hurts a little when she slips three fingers into you without any foreplay, and you groan. She looks at you again and you nod, so she pushes deeper into you, dragging her fingertips against that soft spot inside of you that she knows drives you crazy. The heel of her hand presses against your clit, almost too hard, almost painfully, but still somehow _just_ _right_. 

It’s when a strong, calloused hand comes to wrap around your throat, squeezing, fingertips pressing in, that you finally break. Your hips buck, grinding down desperately onto Alex’s fingers. 

You come with a muffled cry into her shoulder, messy and wet and all over her hand. The grip around your throat loosens as you tremble, unraveled and crying. Your back stings and you’re sure there’s going to be a harsh bruise just under your jawline, the skin there aching, your thighs quivering. 

And it’s familiar, the way you fall into bed with each other after that, but you know it's different than it was before when you wake up and she is gone. Cold silk sheets on that side of the bed, an odd sting in your chest, and for some reason it feels like the breath has been knocked out of your lungs.

There’s a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on your bedside table. 

“Honestly—” You roll your eyes but snatch up the bottle anyways, downing a couple pills as you slip out of bed. You’re naked from the waist down, and as your eyes scan your bedroom floor for your panties and skirt, a door opens somewhere across your penthouse. 

Then, “Shit, sorry!” 

Your head snaps up. Alex is standing in the doorway of your bedroom with her eyes squeezed shut, a brown paper bag in one hand and a tray with two coffee cups in the other. 

“Sorry,” she repeats, careful not to look at your half-naked form as she sets the food and coffee on the top of your dresser, eyes pointed upwards. “Didn’t know you were still undressed. Or, you know, awake for that matter.” 

You blink, pulling your underwear up over your thighs once you finally locate them. The tension from last night has dissipated, and perhaps you should address this intense, rapid cycling between you two, but right now, you can’t find it in you to bring it up. “Alex.” 

Still not looking at you as if she hadn’t literally been _inside_ you just a few hours ago, she hums in response. “Yeah?” 

“What are you doing?” 

She pokes the bag, a Kara-esque crinkle forming between her brows. It’s unbearably cute, but you’re too confused to focus on that right now. “Uh… bringing you breakfast and coffee?” she says, as though it should be obvious. Which, maybe it is, but— 

“Why?” 

And that’s when she laughs. Slightly nervous, but also slightly smug, the kind of contradicting laugh that only Alex Danvers can achieve. “Should I not have?” 

You don’t have an answer for that. Instead, for reasons you know you’ll have to acknowledge later, you grab her wrist and pull her towards you until she’s standing between your thighs. “Stupid,” you murmur, almost to yourself, your fingertips coming up to brush against a soft bottom lip. 

“Hey!” Alex objects, though it’s more half-hearted than anything, as she leans into your touch. “Tell that to my degree in biomedical tech and—“ 

You shut her up with a kiss. Her body leans into yours, and you sigh softly into her mouth as she presses you back into the pillows. 

By the time you both manage to pull away from each other, the coffee has gotten cold. 

* * *

Sometimes when you are lying in bed, you can still imagine how the gun had felt in your hands, cold and heavy, and hear vague echoes of how your ears had rung after the gunshots. The nightmares wake you in a cold sweat and a scream on the tip of your tongue, before reality sinks in and you realize you’re in bed. 

For the first few weeks following Lex’s death, you had found yourself in your office for most of it, working until the early hours of the morning as a distraction.

Now, you find yourself calling Alex.

 _Addiction kills,_ you can’t help but think to yourself as you’re pressed into the bed. It’s all in the way the endorphins kick in and the mind is left in the gutter, knees buckling, oxygen lacking— _remember to breathe, Lena, goddammit—_ and, when did her hands move from your waist to getting tangled in your hair? And then there’s her left thigh, tensing and flexing between yours and making you gasp. 

And then her lips are on your neck and your hands are grasping at her shoulders and _this_ is what euphoria feels like. 

“Feeling better?” Alex asks you afterwards, once you’ve exited the bathroom in nothing but underwear and a loose sweater of hers. 

“You sure know how to relieve stress, Director Danvers,” you purr as you climb into bed next to her, sliding under the sheets. 

Alex just chuckles softly, and you are almost fully tangled up in her again before she’s slipping out of bed and pulling her pants on, throwing a glance over her shoulder when you let out a frustrated noise. “DEO alarm went off while you were in the bathroom. Duty calls,” she explains as she buckles her belt. “Get some sleep.”

Then she’s gone with one last peck on the lips, out the door before you can object.

Addiction _kills—_ and Alex Danvers is going to be the death of you. 

* * *

For the first night in months, you find yourself more afraid of what a pleasant dream could hold rather than a nightmare.

* * *

You keep it a secret.

It's an unspoken understanding between you both, because really— it had been a bad idea from the start, but you'd been broken and she was beautiful and bad things always felt everything _but_ bad when copious amounts of alcohol is involved. 

One night, you fuck her with the lights on because she's needy and wet and you're just… _you_.

She had initiated it. And there's something wrong, you know it. But she wants you, she whispers harshly between her teeth before she uses them to bite your lip. She _wants_ you. But she doesn't, and you know it. But you let her unzip your dress and you let her bite your neck and you let her do what she pleases until you flip her over and return the favor. 

And when she screams Maggie Sawyer’s name during her own orgasm, you let her fall into your chest, feeling the way her body falls and rises. You tangle your fingers in her hair and you don't say a word. You don't feel betrayal, or anything of the sort, because in a way, you recognize that you’re not allowed to— but that doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t constrict painfully in your chest anyways. 

You’re not exactly sure when she starts crying, but you run fingers up and down her spine until she falls asleep.

* * *

Maggie and Kate Kane are getting married, you find out three days later. 

[Three days _late—_ ] 

The date is set for early June, and Alex chuckles bitterly— _sadly—_ at that, because, “We’d planned for May. Maggie always said she hated June weddings.” 

You’re invited to the wedding only through Kate, as you’ve worked together in the past, but the invitation still throws you off. Alex is clearly invited too, because, well. 

Of course Maggie Sawyer invites her ex-fiancé to her wedding. 

You don’t know what went on between them, and you don’t care to know, anyways. It is none of your business. Even when Alex calls you up ten minutes past midnight a few days later for a pair of lips and a drink or two, you don't ask. It's really not your concern. 

But you fuck her good and you fuck her fast, the way she likes it, the way she’s always liked it. You help her forget the pain, the ache in her chest, even if only for a little while. You've got a weakness for her, you really do. You will never admit it aloud, though, especially with how broken she is, the cracks along her facade growing in length and splitting her apart with every day that passes. 

Eventually, though, as the remaining vestiges of spring bleeds into summer, it’s the beginning of June before either of you realize it. 

The wedding falls on a Saturday. 

Alex is quite the actor, you observe, when she sits through the whole reception stony-faced. She plays the part of a supportive ex, a _friend_ , without so much as a momentary break in character. You watch her congratulate the pair with a winning smile, being sure to never meet Detective Sawyer’s gaze as she raises her glass of champagne. And you don't miss it, her look. It's something of sacrifice, of hurt, perhaps even longing, you think. Regardless, the two barely say a word to each other. 

There’s a loud tapping of a glass that pulls you from your thoughts. “Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention? I’d just like to say a few words.” 

_Great,_ you think. You already have a headache. _Now the detective is speaking._

When Maggie stands up to say a toast to her beloved bride, you watch Alex get lost in the midst of the crowd. Everyone's eyes are on the brunette's, however, so no one notices except you. Not even Kara, whose attention is solely focused on the buffet table.

You watch as Alex’s figure turns the corner and disappears. You don't follow her, though, because that's what secret lovers would do or what someone with feelings for a heartbroken woman would do or what you would do for the woman you’ve been rendezvous-ing with, and _that_ — that is much too obvious. 

Somewhere between when the couple has their first dance and when others start to join in, taking the floor, the spotlight, the attention, she slips into the seat beside yours. She has another glass of sparkling gold champagne held between calloused fingers. She doesn't say a word as her eyes are focused on the newly-weds gliding away on the dance floor, and there is a kind of sad wistfulness to her voice when she finally speaks up. 

"They're beautiful," she admits.

"So are you," you say, because you know that sometimes she forgets, and all you want to do is remind her.

She doesn’t answer at first. She doesn't even spare you the glance, allowing the couple's reflection to dance along the glass of her drink. “It’s not about me.” 

An eyebrow cocked, you lean back in your seat. Sometimes, you tend to forget certain things as well, like the fact that not everyone’s attention is as fixated on Alex Danvers as yours is. “Oh?” 

“I mean— It would’ve been,” she continues, hands flapping uselessly. “That would’ve been me.” 

“But it isn’t,” you remind her, not unkindly. Alex just nods, then looks over at you, shrugging. 

“I don’t even know why I came here, Lena. Can we just, can we go?” 

_Thank God._ You’ve been waiting for an excuse to leave since you arrived. You don’t even give her a verbal answer before you’re pulling her up from the chair, grabbing your bag and waiting for her to grab her own things. It’s fairly easy to slip out of the reception as you bid Kate a kind farewell, brushing her concern off with a flimsy excuse about something with L-Corp before returning to your car.

“Where to, Miss Luthor?” your driver asks, as you and Alex get settled in the backseat. Her head is resting on your shoulder, lips curled in and eyes glazed over, and you don’t hesitate before giving the driver an easy answer. 

“Take us back to mine.” 

* * *

In the aftermath of it all a few days later, you sit in one of her flannels on her bed, laptop resting hot against your thighs, her fingers absently tracing random lines along your stomach. There’s a mug of coffee in one hand and your other is working on a spreadsheet, but you’re barely concentrating on it with the way Alex is touching you. 

“I know you want to ask me about it,” she murmurs, continuing to brush her fingertips against your skin. Goosebumps erupt along your hip in their wake. 

“I do,” you reply simply, but shrug. 

Alex purses her lips. “Just ask.”

You pause; Alex doesn’t usually let you ask her things, or ever make you, for that matter. Typically, she tells you things when she wants to. 

But you can’t help yourself, your hands begin to shake slightly. “How long have you loved her for?”

And it’s in the way she hesitates, lost in a fragile, delicate state of mind still fractured by the heartbreak, when you realize that it’s been a much longer time than expected. 

“I don’t, though,” Alex says then, and it catches you so off guard that you almost choke on your coffee. “At least, not anymore.” 

You don’t mention the way she’d screamed Maggie’s name that one night, but you do start to argue with her about one thing, “But the wedding—“

“I was upset, yeah,” Alex brushes off your objection with a wave of her hand, a scoff on her lips. “But it was more… nostalgia than anything, you know? Like, knowing that was going to be me at one time. I just… missed being loved, I guess.” 

You don’t look at her, nor do you say anything else; you don’t know what _to_ say, except for maybe, _I love you,_ but you’re not sure either of you are ready for that conversation just yet. 

“Why did you go that night?” 

Her voice sounds somewhere between melancholic and contentment now, lighter, and you know it must be because of her admittance earlier. She’s not looking you in the eye, and she tends to only do that when things get more serious. 

You glance back at her. “Go where?” 

“To the bar,” she clarifies. “ _My_ bar.” 

Her tone is laced with curiosity, and the softness of it greatly juxtaposes against the sharpness of her features, the way her jaw clenches ever so slightly, the fraction of a second her eyes flicker over to yours and catch you off guard with their hardness. 

For a long stretch of time, you don’t answer, and it doesn’t take her long to get impatient. “Lena,” she calls out to you. “Come on, I know you don’t go to shitty underground alien bars in your free time. So why did you go?” 

There’s no denying it, so you don’t. “Because I knew you were going to be there.” 

Silence, again. Your heart is pounding, because she doesn’t say anything more for a while after that, until, “Do you remember when Kara had that stupid Valentine’s Day party a few years ago, and neither of us had a date, so Kara just—“ 

“—decided without either of our permission to pair us up for the couples’ games?” you finish her sentence, shaking your head. “Of course I remember.” 

“Yeah,” Alex chuckles, a hand coming up to rub at the back of her neck awkwardly. “I, uh— I didn’t know enough about you to win any of those games.”

Her hand, which had still been idly tracing lines along your stomach, stills. It lays flat against your skin now, fingers splayed across your ribs, her palm warm. “I know you now, though. I know you more than I knew Maggie, I think. I mean, looking back on it, I didn’t even— I didn’t even know what to _get_ her for Valentine’s day.”

“We often think we know someone just because we’ve seen what they’ve shown us,” you answer quietly. Kara pops into your head at the thought; you had assumed you knew her because of what she’d shown you, but you didn’t. Not one bit. 

“Is that the case with us?” Alex asks. “Do I just know what you’ve shown me?” 

You want to think so, yes. You want to think that nobody knows anything about who you truly are, especially someone who could break your heart so, so easily. But the truth is that Alex had crawled into the deepest parts of yourself so long ago, slipped between your ribs and made a home there, that you’re pretty sure she knows you more than anyone else. Even Kara. 

“No,” you finally reply, heaving a sigh that is not one of resignation, or dissatisfaction, but of relief. “It’s not.” 

A self-assured nod, and the fingers are back to tracing your skin. “Okay. Good.” 

* * *

You kiss her softly that night, softer than you ever have, and she doesn’t moan Maggie’s name again. 


End file.
